


Echoes

by wellperhaps



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Gen, Implied Eventual Iron Bull/Dorian Pavus, Necromancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-19
Updated: 2018-12-19
Packaged: 2019-09-23 02:02:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17071361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wellperhaps/pseuds/wellperhaps
Summary: The veil is wobbly here, and Bull attracts unwanted attention. Dorian rolls his eyes.(Check the notes for a mental health cw)





	Echoes

It’s already dark when the fighting starts to die down. Dorian begins to tone down his magic, abandoning the more complicated spells in favor of precise, simple bursts of power that hit one demon at a time. He is getting tired, but that is not his main reason for changing his tactic. He can feel the irregularities in the fabric of the veil. It breaks like gossamer in his grasp, and the sound it makes when he lets a spell loose doesn’t ring right. The last thing they need is another tear in the veil.

An abomination turns on Lavellan and lets out a garbled growl. Sera answers it with a ferocious scream and puts an arrow through the creature’s face. It doesn’t slow it down much, but Dorian is ready. He shoots lightning from his staff, and for a second the clearing bathes in harsh colorless light. After that, a flash of green from Lavellan’s hand. Then silence.

They keep their positions for a while. Dorian can hear Bull’s heavy breathing and turns to look at him. He has stood his ground in front of a sea of demons and abominations for hours. Dorian, Lavellan, and Sera have attacked from up high while Bull has guarded the path between the red boulders that now shine black with blood. His chest is heaving and he’s covered in gore. The metallic not-quite-magic of the reaver still clings to the air. Dorian can feel it in his teeth.

“All right,” Lavellan says. After the chaos of the fight, their soft voice catches everyone’s attention. “That’s that. Well done. Is anyone hurt?”

No-one is. Small bruises and cuts that Dorian once might have fretted over hardly even register these days. They walk just far away enough that they don’t have to see or smell what’s left of the demons. Bull is limping, but that too can be considered normal. If the Tal-Vashoth is not trying to hide it, it’s probably not that bad, Dorian presumes.

They wash up in the dark water of a murky lake with even less care for modesty than usual. Dorian calls a small wobbly wisp, that follows an amused Lavellan around as they try to bathe among the pond lilies. Bull laughs as Sera swats it with a cattail. It’s well past midnight as they finally crawl into their tents.

*

Dorian wakes up in the dark. He lies on his back with his eyes open and listens with his whole body. The veil is, for lack of a better word, scuffling.

He can sense the dead.

This is not unusual. Their party spends a lot of time in killing fields, old and new, and the echoes of the dead are naturally drawn to Dorian. Sometimes they just exist as solemn reminders of lives lost, but other times they want Dorian’s attention. He talks to them when time allows it, and quiets them if he can.

But now the dead are looking for someone else.

Dorian leaves his tent with his blanket wrapped around his shoulders. To his surprise, the discordant rattling of the veil leads him around the campfire, over to the Iron Bull’s tent. It’s dark and quiet, except for the veil that only he can hear.

“Hello?” he whispers. “The Iron Bull? Are you awake?”

No answer. How does one knock on a tent flap?

“I am coming inside. If I startle you awake, please don’t attempt to murder me with your axe. You’d only break your tent.”

Dorian crawls into the tent. The Iron Bull is crouched in a corner. His eye shines when the firelight hits it. He’s squeezing the fabric of his blanket in his hands. Dorian stares at him for a while before sitting down, cross-legged with his blanket around him like a cocoon. Considers.

“You need to leave.” The Iron Bull’s voice rumbles low and strained.

“Certainly not.”

“Leave. Tell Lavellan to get out of here.”

“Don’t be absurd. I wouldn’t dare wake them up at this hour. I’m a little insulted, to be honest. Usually the dead come to me if they are restless, but now it seems they favor you. Most interesting.”

“Mage. I’m telling you. I’m going insane. I’m not safe to be around. I can hear voices in my head.”

Dorian rolls his eyes. He can see the warrior is distraught, but that sort of ignorance is just boorish.

“Hearing voices in one’s head does not make anyone particularly dangerous. But in this case, the voices are not coming from you. You’re attracting the lingering energy of the dead. Allow me to listen.”

Without waiting for an answer, Dorian takes hold of his amulet and starts whispering gently. A purple glow swirls around his hands. The shuffling of the veil becomes more focused until he can hear words. He listens for a long time, but he can make little sense of it.

“It seems they believe they know you, the Iron Bull,” Dorian finally says. “They are not eager to talk to me. They are only interested in you.”

“Fuck. Make them go away.”

Dorian realizes the Iron Bull is truly scared. Not just repulsed by magic, but terrified. It’s startling.

“I’m afraid it’s not that simple. There’s too many of them and they are too old to be truly reasoned with. If I were to simply purge this whole area, I would risk tearing the veil. It’s strained as it is. There are things I could try, but the simplest solution would be for you to walk further away from the area for the rest of the night.”

Bull makes a low noise, not unlike a growl.

“Can’t. The ankle’s busted again. Should’ve bandaged it before. Now it’s too swollen.”

Dorian sighs.

“In that case, I will need your cooperation.”

Dorian takes his amulet from around his neck. It takes a few tries, but eventually he manages to convince the Iron Bull to hold it in his palm. The charm looks tiny in the warrior’s hand. Dorian lays his own hand over it and starts whispering. The scuttering voices of the dead sound like insects fluttering against the tent fabric. Dorian has to admit it is not very pleasant.

He works slowly, gently. The words he hums are not quite a song and not quite a spell. He’s playing it by the ear, plucking quietly at the fabric of the veil. The echoes of the dead begin to listen. Their scuttering slows down as they turn towards the amulet.

“You should join in,” Dorian whispers, smiling. “It’s you they want to hear. Sing them a tavern song.”

“Fucking fuck,” Bull mutters, and the veil ripples around them as the dead undulate closer to him.

To Dorian’s surprise, Bull does join in. He starts humming, then singing quietly in Qunlat, his low voice making the magic of the amulet thrum. Dorian tries to follow the melody. As they work, the whispers of the dead become words, then sentences. A story emerges.

“A long time ago, there was another battle,” Dorian whispers. “Perhaps a blight, perhaps a war. When the enemy came for the village and tore down their flimsy barricades, they were sure they were lost. But then a warrior, a stranger, stepped onto the path. Not one attacker got past her. The village was saved. Very dramatic, but this is how the dead remember it.”

“There’s no village here,” Bull mutters.

“No. The village is lost to time, as are these ghosts. They died a peaceful death, but while they lived, they kept telling stories of the warrior who saved them. Their children kept the legend alive. A horned warrior, roaring like a dragon, guarding the passage between the red rocks, all alone against the horde. When she fell, she took the last attacker with her. They say her blood is still within the rocks. Does that sound like anyone we know?”

“It’s a good spot. Just wide enough to swing an axe,” Bull mutters.

“Quite. And when you were swinging your axe there today, the dead watched. They have come to greet their hero. Several generations of them.”

Bull grunts. “Not many qunari pass through here, I guess.”

“You might be the first one since the legend began,” Dorian says, amused. “Come now. Let us sing them to sleep.”

They resume their somewhat disorderly humming. The echoes calm down further. After a few minutes, Bull stops.

“Alright now. I’m not singing you any more lullabies. Leave me be,” he says.

Dorian figures it’s as good as it’s going to get. He takes the amulet back, and draws a small glyph into the air, just to soothe and moderate the general activity of the Fade. Bull is watching him, tense but no longer panicked.

“They’re quieter.”

“They got what they wanted. Namely, your attention. They mean you no harm. Do you think you will be able to sleep?”

Bull shrugs. Dorian sighs. There is a good chance the echoes will become restless again before morning.

“I suppose the ground here is just as lumpy as it is under my own tent. Wake me up if they start bothering you again.” He wraps the blanket tighter around himself and settles down on the opposite side of the tent.

After a few minutes, a warm hand squeezes his shoulder.

“Dorian. Thanks.”

Bull ends up falling asleep before Dorian does. Dorian supposes it’s only fair. Bull did kill an astounding number of demons today.

**Author's Note:**

> Bull believes that he is hearing voices, and thinks he is "going insane" and dangerous because of it. His opinions are quickly dismissed.


End file.
